


you make me feel (mighty real)

by mardia



Series: satellites [2]
Category: The Martian (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Mark has a lot of feelings, Pining, Porn with Feelings, Sharing a Bed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-02-16
Packaged: 2018-05-21 00:19:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6031201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mardia/pseuds/mardia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s probably no convenient time to discover that you're in love with your commanding officer, but even by those standards Mark’s timing is <i>spectacularly</i> awful. (Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/5501852">All This Could Be Yours</a>, set during Chapter 2.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	you make me feel (mighty real)

**Author's Note:**

> So I meant to have this sequel/continuation out much earlier, but writer's block and the major distraction that is The Force Awakens fandom kept this on the backburner for a bit. Thanks as always to angelsaves for cheerleading and reading this over and reassuring me it didn't suck. Title comes from the song of the same name by Sylvester. (Yes, it's disco, and no, I have no shame about this.)

There’s probably no convenient time to discover that you're in love with your commanding officer, but even by those standards Mark’s timing is _spectacularly_ awful. 

Before Sol 18, Mark would've characterized his feelings toward Melissa--Commander Lewis, rather--as admiration, respect, loyalty, and sure, yes, he liked her. All nice safe feelings that NASA would've approved of, encouraged even.

Now, over a year and a half later, they're a day away from launching in the MAV to intercept with the Hermes. Tomorrow will be an ending, one way or another. Mark’s prepared himself for the possibility of his death countless times during this mission, but Melissa--Melissa is--

If there was some way to meet the devil at a crossroads and make a bargain, a deal that would secure Melissa’s life for his own, Mark would do it right now without thinking. He would sign on for that deal and be _grateful_ for it--just so long as she lived.

There are a lot of noble motivations Mark could use to explain this. Loyalty, gratitude, friendship, but Mark knows why he feels this way, why just the idea of Melissa dying has him wanting to curl up and howl in protest. 

It’s because he loves her. A year and a half on this planet and this is where Mark has ended up, with a visceral hatred of potatoes, madly in love with the most amazing person he’s ever met, and facing either salvation or certain death in the morning.

Given all that, it’s a miracle he’s even choked down half of this meal.

And Melissa is looking at him now as though she can read every emotion he’s feeling. Dimly aware that he’s gripping his fork hard enough to break it, Mark says, “Commander, I--”

Melissa looks up at this, at Mark using her rank for the first time in over a year, and Mark’s unsteady heartbeat only picks up even more at the wary look on her face. “Mark?”

“Look,” Mark says, gulping. “I just wanted to say, before tomorrow--”

For the rest of his life, Mark isn’t sure what he would’ve said in that moment. He has some vague ideas of telling her how grateful he was for everything she’d done, but as for what would’ve actually come out of his mouth in that moment, where his head was clouded with emotion and fear? No clue.

He doesn’t know what he’d have said, and it doesn’t matter, because Melissa cuts him off. “Mark,” she says again, gentle but implacable, resting her hands on top of his. “Stop.”

Mark look ups at her face, and oh. Oh God. 

She’s smiling at him now, with tears in her eyes, she’s still smiling at him--so sweetly that it makes Mark’s chest crack wide open. “Mark,” Melissa tells him, “--it has been an honor, and a privilege.”

There is suddenly nothing that Mark can say to that, to those words, the emotion in her face. So he leans in to rest his forehead against hers, hoping she somehow won’t notice his wet eyes, how thick his voice is when he finally manages to choke out, “Yeah. Yeah, likewise.”

It’s completely inadequate, but the way Melissa runs her thumb across his knuckles gives Mark hope that she understands him anyway.

*

From NASA’s perspective, the intercept is an unqualified success. The MAV reaches the intercept point without difficulty, Mark and Melissa are rescued in acceptable condition, and the Hermes doesn’t suffer any damage. 

From Mark’s perspective, it’s fucking torture. He breaks two ribs, which isn’t great, but he’s fine. Mark is basically fine.

Melissa isn’t. 

Melissa is trapped in the MAV, gasping for breath between every word she speaks, because she has a collapsed lung, because she is injured and help won’t be coming for _half an hour_ , and it’s complete hell. 

Logically Mark knows this isn’t a disaster. He hears what Beck’s saying over the comms, he knows Melissa and Martinez are doing their level best to keep him and the rest of the crew distracted, but there is just no way that’s going to work, not when Melissa sounds like that, in so much pain that she can’t even try to hide it, not when Mark can't help her or see her face or do a single fucking thing to help her, all he can do is sit in this spinning space convertible and lose his goddamn mind.

It’s a miracle he’s not screaming from sheer frustration. But he doesn’t snap, Mark grits his teeth and makes small talk about the fucking _White Sox_ , to add insult to injury, and he waits for Beck to arrive, listening to Melissa’s labored breaths over the comm until the canvas rips open, and Beck is grinning down at them both. 

Months after the fact, Mark remembers his re-entry onto the Hermes as a blur of frustration, joy, and overwhelming fear--starting from when he hears Beck say, “Her lips are turning blue, goddammit--”

Mark twists away from Martinez and Johanssen, who are attempting to help him out of the suit but are really just in the fucking way--and yes, Melissa’s lips have an unmistakable bluish tinge to them. Oh God. Oh please God, no.

It takes Mark a while before he apologizes to the crew for being so short with them during this situation--

(And when he does, Martinez just scoffs and says, “You mean the time you were a giant fucking pain in our asses? Forget about it, that’s par for the course with you.”) 

\--but it takes even longer before Mark actually starts to feel bad about it.

Truthfully, he never feels all that bad about it, because his place _should_ be at Melissa’s side, he has to be there with her, it is fucking ridiculous that Mark has to take time to explain this while Melissa’s condition is deteriorating, and _fuck_ his goddamn suit, he’ll go to sickbay still wearing it if he has to.

But finally he’s in the sickbay, the crew right on his heels. Beck’s cutting off Melissa’s shirt as she lies on the bed, and Mark barely hears the gasps behind him--Melissa’s wasted form is all-too familiar to him, he just goes forward and takes her outstretched hand in his, listening to the silent summons, Melissa’s blue eyes staring dazedly up into his face.

“Mark, I can’t have you in the way,” Beck warns. Melissa’s hand squeezes around his, and Mark just squeezes back, reassuring her even as he says, “Good, because I won’t be in the way.”

Beck glances at him, mouth pinched, but he doesn’t actually argue any further, which is great because if he did, Mark would’ve lost his shit. Instead he looks down at Melissa, Melissa who is staring up at them blearily, mute, her face white from the pain and the injury to her lung, and tells her, “Commander, this is going to hurt quite a bit, but you’ll be feeling better really soon, okay?”

And when Beck says that this is going to hurt, what he means is that he’s going to stick a giant needle between Melissa’s ribs without any fucking pain meds, leaving her to shriek in pain, the sound ringing in Mark’s ears. It’s hell, and the only thing that saves it is that Melissa’s actually breathing again, eyes closed and her face tilted up as she gasps for air. 

As the blue tinge leaves her face, Mark’s knees go weak, threatening to buckle.

He locks them so he can stay upright, and he doesn’t leave Melissa’s side. 

*

It’s not until Mark’s alone in the shower--in a functioning shower with water and soap and Mark doesn’t care about his sores stinging in the spray, he’s not getting out of here a second before he has to--it’s not until then that it hits him.

They’re alive. They escaped and they left and they’re alive. He’s alive, Melissa’s alive--she’s hurt but she’s alive and safe. Whatever mistakes he made, whatever awful luck they had--they made it out. Every nightmare Mark’s had, every horrible dream of Melissa dying because he was too slow or too stupid or just too unlucky--none of them have come true.

The spray is strong enough that Mark can’t actually feel the tears running down his cheeks, but the racking sobs that pull at his injured ribs are impossible to ignore.

*

The problem doesn’t start until Mark goes back to the sickbay to see Melissa. After his shower, Beck comes in to wrap his ribs, assuring Mark that Melissa’s fine, she’s getting a sponge bath from Johanssen (as she can’t go into the shower with a tube sticking out of her chest) and getting a meal there in sickbay. 

“Meanwhile,” Beck says with a smile, “I figured you’d also want to eat some actual food for once.”

Mark actually goes a little lightheaded at the thought. Oh, Jesus. Real food. “ _Yes_ ,” Mark says, heartfelt, and Beck laughs and has Vogel escort Mark to the mess to get a meal. 

It’s so good, oh Christ, Mark is almost crying at the sensation of eating something with actual flavor to it--it’s nothing impressive in reality, Mark knows, beans and rice, but it’s not potatoes, it’s not a meal he has to ration out for days on end, he can eat it all and know there’s more where it came from. 

Vogel is mercifully quiet while Mark eats, giving him some space but it’s--it’s so _strange_ , looking up, his mouth full, and seeing a face other than Melissa’s. Just--what the hell.

When Mark had pictured this moment, their rescue, salvation, he’d never dreamed of it happening without Melissa there for every moment. Their first real meal together post-rescue, he’d pictured Melissa’s eyes closing in pleasure as she ate, and then looking over at him with a smile, her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk, face alight. He’d never pictured this moment without her, and now that it’s happening, it just doesn’t feel quite right. 

He swallows the last of his meal, his stomach faintly aching, and says, “I think--I’d like to check on, on the commander.” He stutters a little over Melissa’s rank, despite promising himself he’d be so careful about that. “See how she’s doing.”

“Of course, I’ll walk you over,” Vogel says, and Mark smiles at him. 

“You know my legs do still work just fine, right?” he teases. Vogel gives him a look and says, in his mild way, “Indulge me, please.” Vogel’s never been the tactile sort, but he claps his hand on Mark’s shoulder and leaves it there for the entire walk back to sickbay.

Outside the door, Beck and Martinez are talking together quietly in low tones, with Johanssen at Beck’s side. Johanssen’s the first to catch sight of Mark, her face breaking into a smile as she does. 

Mark feels his face stretch out into an answering smile--God, it’s good to see their faces. “Hey, guys.” He looks to the closed door and asks, “So, how is she?”

“She’s good,” Beck says quickly. “Ate some food, and I just gave her a sedative to help her get some rest.” His face softens, and he adds, “She should still be awake, though, you can, uh, you can look in on her if you want.”

Mark can’t quite help his tiny frown at this--there’s something off about what Beck’s saying, something that's jangling in Mark’s brain.

“Don’t know if you heard, but we’ve had an issue with the climate controls in our bunk rooms,” Martinez tells him. “Both of our bunk rooms are saunas right now, so we’ll have to double-up. You and I will be in Beck’s old quarters, Beck’s doubling up with Johanssen--”

“Beck and Johanssen?” Mark has to ask, eyebrows raised. Beck’s entire face goes pink, and Johanssen tries to play it cool, but there’s a pleased little smile lurking around the corners of her mouth. “Oh, _wow_ ,” Mark says, starting to grin. 

“Don’t start,” Beck says, and Mark just cackles. 

“Oh, I’ll start. I’ll start and I won’t stop for the entire trip home, are you kidding me? I have _months_ of teasing to catch up on.”

Martinez claps him on the shoulder. “And it’s this shit right here that made us seriously question coming back for you,” he intones, but he’s grinning all the same. “So listen, after you check in with the commander, I’ll take you to the bunk, we’ll let you get some rest--” He stops talking at the look on Mark’s face, and Mark should probably try to cover up his initial reaction, but he can’t, he just--

“I’m not staying there tonight,” he says to all of them, because even if Mark can’t believe this has to be said, he’s going to say it. “I--someone has to stay with Melissa.”

Beck’s the first to react, his forehead creasing with concern as he steps forward, saying, “Mark--no, look, it’s okay. I’m keeping watch over her tonight, she’s not going to be left alone.”

Mark just stares at him, speechless, and over to the corner, he hears Martinez say quietly to Vogel and Johanssen, “Guys, give us a minute, huh?”

As they fade off, Mark says, as calmly as he can, “Okay, but I should still be there. We’ve--she can’t wake up after that and not know where I am.” 

His heart’s starting to beat faster at the thought of it, Melissa waking up in the middle of the night, disoriented and in pain, not knowing where he is--

Having shooed Vogel and Johanssen off, Martinez reenters the conversation, saying in a rational tone that only puts Mark’s back up even more, “Mark, buddy, I hear you, but there’s just no room for two beds in there.”

“So I’ll sleep in a chair,” Mark retorts, to which Beck immediately replies, sounding horrified, “Not with those ribs, you’re not.”

Irritated, Mark shoots back, “Then I’ll sleep on the _floor_ , it’s not like I can hurt my ribs any worse.”

If Mark had been even a little less irritated, he surely would’ve found the look on Beck’s face hilarious--his cheeks go bright red, his eyes widen in mingled outrage and alarm, and Beck repeats, “You think you can’t hurt--are you _kidding_ me with--”

“Beck,” Martinez says, and Mark can hear an echo of Melissa in the snap of his voice. “Cool it.”

Beck exhales loudly through his nose before saying, “In my professional medical opinion, as the flight surgeon on this mission, there is no way you’re spending tonight on the floor. It is not happening.”

“Okay, that’s not at all what I meant by cool it, but you know, thanks for that, Doctor,” Martinez says with a sigh, and waves Beck back with a hand gesture. “Let me talk now, okay?” He grips Mark’s shoulders, his touch gentle but Mark still feels a moment of dissonance, comparing his emaciated body to Martinez’s solid frame, how much _bigger_ Martinez seems now. 

“Mark, we’re all worried about the Commander, okay? But she’s in good hands with Beck, she’s recovering nicely and if, God forbid, anything _does_ go sideways you’re the first person we’ll call in, right?” He looks over at Beck for confirmation and Beck nods quickly. 

“She’ll be fine, Mark, I’m not worried,” he tells Mark, and before Mark can retort with what he thinks of that--or what he thinks of this insane plan to split himself and Melissa up for the night--Martinez is cutting in, saying, “Come on, when Lewis wakes up in the morning, she’ll give us hell if she finds out we let you aggravate that injury even worse.”

Mark pauses at this, because he knows they aren’t wrong. And Martinez knows when to press an advantage when he has one, saying in a softer voice, “Mark. I know it’s hard, man, but you’re here now. Let us pick up some of the slack.”

Mark swallows at this, staring down at his slipper-clad feet for a moment before he nods. “Yeah. Okay. Sorry, I--didn’t mean to push like that.”

He doesn’t mean one word of the apology, but it feels like the sort of thing he should mean, or at least should say aloud. It does the trick at least, Martinez and Beck both relaxing, clearly relieved as Martinez says, “Hey, buddy, no, we get it. Today’s been hell.”

“I’m definitely not looking to repeat it,” Beck says dryly. “Ever.”

Mark forces himself to smile at this, but asks next, “Can I see her?”

Beck’s face softens. “Of course.”

Mark’s heart is speeding up as he slips into the sickbay, the lights dimmed down low. Melissa’s dozing on the bed, a white sheet drawn up over her body, and Mark freezes at the sight before he can think twice. 

Melissa stirs at the sound of him coming in and her eyes blink open, and then she smiles, wide and sleepy, her grin taking up half of her face. “Hey,” she drawls out, and the smile that comes to Mark’s face is automatic, even as his chest goes tight. 

“Hey,” he says, stepping to her side. He tries not to show anything, but even like this, doped up and out of it, Melissa knows him too well, and her mouth quirks as she looks down at her sheet-clad body. “I know, I look like a corpse right now. Freaked out Johanssen too, earlier.”

Mark nods in acknowledgment, conceding, “Yeah, that sheet doesn’t help. You’d kill at a Halloween party, though.” Melissa grins crookedly at this, and Mark asks her, “From your pupils I probably don’t need to ask, but how are you feeling?”

“Really high,” Melissa says, with an exaggerated look of dismay that has Mark chuckling. That strange tension in his chest won’t go away, though, and then Melissa hums softly, her eyes fluttering open as she turns to look at him. 

“Come here,” she murmurs, and Mark unthinkingly moves to lean over her, and hisses as his ribs flare with pain.

He waves off Melissa’s noises of concern, grabbing a nearby chair to sit by her side. “What is it?” he asks, and Melissa just looks at him for a long, long moment.

It's not a surprise, exactly, when she reaches out to touch his face, but the feeling of her cool fingertips sends shivers all along Mark’s spine anyway. 

The lighting is dim, but Melissa’s eyes are still shining as she says, her voice a faint whisper, “Will you look at that.”

Mark’s throat is so tight he barely manages to speak, but he gets out, “What, this old thing?” pointing at his face. 

“No,” Melissa says, and Mark doesn’t know how to stand it, the way she’s looking at him now, so open and fearless and-- “We made it out,” Melissa tells him, her voice still hushed. “You’re alive, you--” And oh, Christ, there are tears slipping down her face, running down her temple, her cheek as she says, “I didn’t get you killed after all.”

 _Fuck_. His own eyes stinging, Mark reaches out without thinking to wipe her tears away, his thumb brushing against the soft skin of her cheek, as Melissa blinks rapidly and tries to come back to herself. “Oh God, I’m sorry, it’s these stupid drugs, I _told_ Beck I didn’t need them--”

“Shh,” Mark says. “It’s fine. God, Melissa, do you know how many nightmares I had about a mistake of mine getting you killed? It’s okay, you’re fine.”

Melissa lets out a long sigh, her eyes falling shut once more as Mark’s fingers skim along the sharp jut of her cheekbone. “I know, I know.” Her own hand brushes against Mark’s face again, impossibly tender, as she says, “We’re alive, we’re safe, I know.”

 _I love you_ Mark thinks, his eyes closing at her touch, and it’s not a tragedy, it’s no longer terrifying, it’s just...it’s a fact as inescapable as the color of his eyes, as the force of gravity on the universe. 

Of course he’s in love with Melissa. How could he not be?

Melissa takes in a long breath, and Mark opens his eyes again as she asks him, “You can’t stay in here, can you.”

Mark’s mouth twists, and he admits, “Yeah, Beck’s not a fan of me sleeping on the floor tonight, go figure.” Melissa hums at this, her thumb idly rubbing against Mark’s cheek before she finally pulls her hand away. 

Mark’s cheek feels colder at the loss, and Melissa sighs as she says, clearly reluctant, “I should let you get your rest.”

“Could say the same for you,” Mark points out. He lets his hand trail along the tousled cloud of Melissa’s hair as he pulls back, saying with a smile, “See you in the morning?”

“Bright and early,” Melissa says with a smile, and that’s enough to get Mark’s feet moving towards the door. As he’s about to head out though, Melissa calls out, “Mark?”

He turns around quickly at that, faster than he should if his protesting ribs are any indication. “Yeah?”

Melissa’s mischievous grin gives the game away, even before she opens her mouth and sings in a soft falsetto, “Ah, ah, ah, ah--stayin’ alive, stayin’ alive.”

Both Beck and Martinez look surprised when Mark exits the sickbay laughing, a hand clutching at his aching ribs as he shuffles through the doorway.

*

His first week back on the Hermes, Mark can’t sleep for shit.

It's unsurprising but it's still hell on his nerves, waking up from an uneasy sleep to a bunk that feels too big, too cold, too empty. The worse part is that half-second of sleepy confusion where he reaches out for Melissa, only to remember once again that she's not there. 

Even the sound of Martinez faintly snoring from his makeshift bunk on the floor isn't enough to call him down, not when Mark can recall with perfect clarity what it felt like to have the weight of Melissa sleeping on his chest, her head tucked under his chin. And without Melissa there--it's too easy for Mark's anxiety to spiral, to build until he's slipping out of his bunk, moving as quietly as he can so he doesn't wake Martinez, leaving so that he can prowl the hallways of the _Hermes_ , checking and rechecking to make sure none of the systems are malfunctioning, that there isn’t a problem that will turn into the disaster that’ll kill them all. 

It goes without saying, but a lot of the nightmares that has Mark waking up in a cold sweat center on the day the Hab’s airlock blew.

For all that Mark tries to keep his nighttime activities quiet, he’s not so foolish enough to think that nobody’s noticed. Martinez has tried to talk to him about it, Beck very pointedly asks about Mark’s sleep patterns during his daily check-ins, and Mark deflects and laughs the questions off, and when that doesn’t work, he shakes his head and he says, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

So far, no one’s pushed very hard, but they will. Mark knows they will.

One morning, Mark heads over to the kitchens where he sees Melissa talking with Martinez and Vogel, going over the day’s repairs and maintenance assignments. Mark takes a moment to linger in the hallway, out of everyone’s line of sight--not because he’s not hungry, but because it’s...interesting, seeing Melissa like this, her hair gathered into a knot at the nape of her neck, her shoulders square as she sits in her seat, discussing what needs to be done in that calm voice. Despite her still too-thin face, it’s a throwback to the days when Mark had first gotten to know her, when he’d only thought of her by her last name and her rank, when all he knew of her was her qualifications and that she had a voice that seemed capable of talking you through anything.

Without looking over at him, Melissa calls out, mid-conversation, “Mark, come over here and take a look at this.”

Mark smiles and says, “Sure thing,” not missing how both Martinez and Vogel’s heads whip around in surprise to see Mark standing there in the doorway. Martinez doesn’t react much beyond a quick, “Hey, buddy,” but Vogel glances between Mark and Melissa, eyebrows momentarily rising before he clearly decides to let it go.

There are several chairs available at the table, but Mark takes the seat next to Melissa, leaning in a little as Melissa shows him the details of the needed repairs on her tablet. 

When he looks back up, he finds Melissa studying him, and he’s sure she’s cataloging everything--the way his hair is standing up on end, the dark circles under his eyes, that he hasn’t shaved yet this morning. But then she smiles, and says, “Tell me what you think.”

“Sure thing, Commander,” Mark says, the use of her rank still feeling unfamiliar on his tongue, despite--or perhaps because--Mark is so careful now to use it.

*

Of course it’s Melissa that finally comes to ask him about his lack of sleep. Mark’s more surprised at himself that he didn’t see it coming. 

She comes to him when he’s in the gym on the treadmill, looking uneasy, and it’s on the tip of his tongue to ask her again what’s wrong when she says, abruptly, “Beck says you aren’t sleeping.”

Oh. Mark pauses before he answers, looking away from her as he tries to brush it off. “Yeah, I suppose. Nothing too bad, just get a little restless at night.”

It’s not just that, and they both know it--but what else can Mark say? That he’s gotten too used to sharing a bed with her? This isn’t Mars, where they had every imaginable excuse to clutch at any coping method possible--now they’re safely on the Hermes, in the company of their fellow crewmates, in constant contact with NASA, and with a bevy of sleeping aids at their disposal. Mark doesn’t have an excuse for wanting to keep her close to him, nothing despite--

Mark can’t ask her to do this. He can’t ask this of her, not just because he misses her, loves her, _wants_ her with a force that would shake him to his core if he let himself think about it for longer than two seconds. 

He can’t ask her for more than she’s already given him.

So Mark doesn’t ask--and it doesn’t matter in the end, because Melissa offers it. She looks him in the eyes, and in the space of a second her face shifts, her expression opens up, and she says, “It’s okay, I’ve having trouble sleeping too.” As Mark looks at her, she goes on, saying, “I keep...I keep reaching out for you, in the middle of the night. And I’m always surprised when you’re not there.”

Oh. Hardly able to make sense of what he’s feeling, Mark stares at her, and admits, “Yeah. Yeah, I keep--” Oh God, Mark can hardly believe he’s going to admit to this, but he has to, Melissa can’t be the only being totally honest and vulnerable here. "This is gonna sound really creepy, so I apologize, but...whenever I had a nightmare, and woke up in the middle of the night in the Hab, I'd...stroke your hair sometimes. Just to, to orient myself again."

Mark can feel his face going hotter as he admits this, Christ, he has to sound like a total weirdo--but instead of looking alarmed or studiously blank, Melissa is somehow still smiling at him, that amused curving smile of hers as she says, “You thought I was sleeping. I always knew, I never minded.”

And now Mark’s face is so red that there is no way she can’t tell he’s blushing. Christ. His stomach twisting between relief and embarrassment, Mark mumbles, “Oh. Well...okay, then.”

Of course Melissa doesn’t let him off that easy. He knew she wouldn’t, as her smile turns even more teasing. "If I knew saying something was going to make you blush this hard, I would've mentioned it earlier."

Mark really can’t be blamed for burying his face in his hands at this. Jesus Christ. But when he looks up at Melissa, grinning, it’s relief that’s rising up inside of him--relief and a dawning happiness that Mark won’t try to analyze, just bask in. 

Once the teasing’s done, though, there’s only one thing left to ask. “So...what now?”

From the way that Melissa looks down at her hands, Mark knows she’s going to make the offer, even before she says the words out loud. “We could just become roommates again.”

The yes is lying in wait because Jesus Christ, Mark wants to say it, he wants to take his things and move into Melissa’s quarters yesterday, but he can't--he doesn't want to be greedy, selfish enough to put his own needs over what Melissa needs, or what's best for the crew. “I just--are you sure?”

He knows she'll pick up on what he's really asking, and Melissa nods calmly. Mark starts to relax a little as she lays out her reasoning, why she's not worried--why she wants to do this, and in the end, yes is the only thing Mark can say. Yes, he'll do this. Yes, he's with her.

And yes, Mark thinks as Melissa grins, the overhead lighting shining in her smooth hair, yes, he still loves her. 

*

It takes Mark very little time to to pack his things for the short move to Melissa’s quarters, but it feels like an eternity, because the entire time Mark’s packing, Martinez is there, very pointedly (or so it feels to Mark) talking about every subject there is--except for the elephant in the room. 

The silence on that one topic feels more and more pointed the longer Martinez talks, complaining about how he could go the rest of his life without ever looking at Mark’s experiments again, “Do you know what the Air Force didn’t train me for, Mark? Watering _plants_.”

“They probably didn’t realize you needed to have your hand held throughout such a difficult task,” Mark shoots back, but when he glances over his shoulder, Martinez is watching him, with that patient, assessing gaze that Mark always associates with Melissa and Jesus, is that something the military trains everyone on? What is that?

So, because Mark is not military and is not trained to withstand interrogation or torture, he cracks. “You don’t think this is weird?”

Martinez’s face stays pleasant, giving nothing away as he asks, “What is?”

“Me moving in with her,” Mark says, not calling Melissa by her name or by her rank. “You don’t think it’s weird?”

Martinez says, promptly, "Nope, it's not weird." When Mark stares at him, he tilts his head back and forth, acknowledging Mark's skepticism before amending, "Okay, maybe it's a little weird, but I'm not worried."

"I'm about to move in with our commanding officer, and you're not worried about it?" Mark presses. He wants to believe what Martinez is saying, which is why he's so wary. It'd be too easy for him to assume that it's fine, that no one cares, and only realize he's damaging Melissa's reputation once it's too late.

Martinez's gaze is steady as he says, "Nope. Not worried."

"Why not?" Mark asks.

"Because you're alive," Martinez says, still looking at Mark, his voice so suddenly sincere that Mark's breath leaves his lungs in a slow exhale. "You're alive. She's alive. You think I care about protocol compared to that? You think I'm worried about appearances after thinking my best friend was dead, that I'd left my commander to die alone on Mars? Mark, come the fuck on."

Mark blinks, swallowing hard before he says, "That wasn't on you."

Martinez's mouth twists as he says, dryly, "Yeah, Lewis keeps telling me the same thing." He shakes his head, saying next, "Look, it--you need help. And she needs help, she’s got circles under eyes almost as bad as yours--and if this helps you both, then I'm on board. And if it looks a little weird from the outside, then so fucking be it. I'll take you two being alive and weirdos over the alternative."

"What about the crew?" Mark asks.

Martinez shrugs. "They're on the same page, trust me. Beck's about ready to start tearing his hair out over the two of you, you're the worst patients he's ever had."

Mark laughs at this before he can stop himself. "We're not that bad," he starts, and at Martinez's deadpan look, adds, "Okay, so maybe she is that bad, but I'm not."

"Try telling that to somebody who hasn't seen you wandering around the ship after lights out for weeks now," Martinez retorts. "You need a keeper, and if Lewis is volunteering, I'm all ears." He claps Mark around the shoulders to ease any sting out of his words, saying, "Now let's get you moved in with the commander so that you can both enjoy that boogie fever." He grins widely as Mark groans.

“Is it too late for me to claim Stockholm Syndrome?” he asks.

“Way too late,” Martinez confirms before asking, “You think Commander Lewis would be up for teaching us how to do the Hustle?”

“Please ask her that,” Mark says in all sincerity. “And make sure I'm around with a camera when you do.”

*

And for the first couple of days, it was just as simple as Martinez had made it out to be. Simple and brilliant, having Melissa there with him each night, the two of them falling back into their nighttime routines, Mark reading their latest Christie novel aloud while Melissa carefully brushed out her hair, Melissa sleepily curling up against Mark’s chest in the tiny bunk they shared. The first morning Mark wakes up to the feeling of Melissa’s head resting on his shoulder, the faint smell of her shampoo in his nostrils, he can barely breathe for how happy he is, how _right_ this feels. 

And it’s not as if the crew minds--Martinez had been right about that too, and no one barely blinks at the two of them, not even when Mark and Melissa leave their quarters at the same time, or when Mark finds himself leaning a little bit closer to Melissa in the kitchen during dinner, their arms brushing as they reach for their food. 

Best of all is that it’s visibly doing Melissa good as well--there’s a tension that leaves her mouth, her eyes lose that shadowed look to them, and in the morning when she flashes him a grin that leaves her looking like a damn teenager, a lock of red hair falling over her forehead--Mark loses his breath for a moment, gazing at her.

It’s all going so well, and so of course his subconscious has to go and fuck it up. 

Mark dreams of the Hab, sometimes. His nightmares are the most memorable, sure, but most of his dreams are fairly banal, really--memories of tending to the potatoes, running experiments, listening to Melissa sing. 

This dream starts out like most of the others, Mark hunched over a lab table, trying to fumble his way through Vogel’s experiments, when he senses Melissa approaching. He turns to look at her, and she’s--she looks like herself, her old self, before Sol 18, healthy and whole, no hollow cheeks, no withered limbs. Her hair is loose around her shoulders, and she’s smiling, and right then, she is simply the most beautiful thing Mark has ever seen. 

“Hey,” he says, dumbly, and Melissa’s smile only grows wider, a flash of white teeth in her face. 

“Hey, Watney,” she says, and for no reason at all, Mark shivers a little at the sound of her voice, how it’s lower than usual. “Can you get up for a second?”

Not sure what’s going on, Mark immediately gets to his feet to do as she asks--and as he rises up from his chair, he realizes that his body’s changed too--it’s more solid, filled out, in the state he was before leaving Earth. He rolls his shoulders as he stares down at himself, muttering, “What--I look--”

“You look good,” Melissa says, and when Mark looks up at her, startled, he sees the open appreciation on her face, the way her gaze skims over his broad shoulders, at how the tight shirt clings to his chest. 

Mark’s throat goes dry. “Thank you,” he says after a moment, idiotically, and Melissa’s smile grows wider, _sharper_ at that. “You, uh, you wanted something from me?”

Melissa looks him over, considering, before she says, “Yeah. Take off your shirt.”

Mark’s entire body goes still at her words. “What?” he says, even as his hands automatically move to the hem of his shirt. It’s a reflex, it’s just a reflex, no matter how his body’s responding to her words, the look on her face. 

Melissa’s smile only grows more amused. “I don’t think I need to repeat myself, do I?” She tilts her head just so, and deliberately looks him over, her gaze dragging over him until Mark feels scorched, his skin prickling. 

“No,” Mark says faintly, and when his fingers curl around the hem of his shirt, he doesn’t try to talk himself out of it, he doesn’t let himself think, he doesn’t do anything except what Melissa’s told him to do, whipping his shirt off in one smooth motion, and tossing it down on the floor.

Despite the warm air, Mark’s skin is still prickling, his breathing coming quicker the longer that Melissa looks him over, assessing. His cock is growing harder in his pants as the silence stretches out, and then Melissa says, casually, “Pants too,” and all the air leaves Mark’s lungs in a rush. 

Looking directly at her, Mark toes off his shoes, then unbuttons his pants and pushes them down past his hips, over his thighs, and finally kicks them off as they puddle around his ankles. He stares, blankly, at his bare feet for a moment before straightening back up, viscerally aware of how his boxers do absolutely _nothing_ to hide his erection.

Melissa steps towards him, her body language open and relaxed, except that she keeps coming to him, until she’s only inches away, looking up at him with that calm air of hers. She’s close enough that Mark is sure she can tell how fast his heart’s beating, how every part of him is--

And then Melissa touches him, her fingers cool against his skin as they skim along his collarbone, his shoulders and biceps, before trailing down along his chest, and Mark’s breathing is now loud enough that both of them can hear it, it’s now the loudest thing in the room. 

“Commander,” Mark starts, his mouth hushed, and she raises an eyebrow, and Mark stutters, correcting himself, “Melissa--” 

And then Melissa slowly rubs her thumb over his nipple, teasing it, and the hot spark of arousal has Mark gasping as he says, “Melissa, oh my God, _please_ \--”

She keeps going, relentless, pinching and teasing his nipples until they’re hard and aching, then moving a hand so she can scrape her short nails down his abdomen, too blunt to really _hurt_ , but the sharp sensation drags a low groan out of his throat. 

“Let me touch you,” he groans out, hands fisted at his side so he won’t reach out for her without permission. “Please, Melissa, please--”

Melissa’s mouth is millimeters away from his when she says, “All right.” Her breath faintly gusts along his mouth, as she tells him, “Lie down on your back.”

Mark’s bones feel like they’re turning to water, but he does it, lies down on the metal floor, his breathing still loud and unsteady in his ears. He lifts his head up, sits up onto his elbows to watch her, mouth going dry as Melissa methodically strips down, all that pale skin and lean muscle revealed, her hair shining a reddish-gold in the light as it tumbles over her face. 

Once she’s naked, Melissa walks over to Mark, standing over him as she says, “If you want to stop--”

“I’m not going to want to stop,” Mark promises, hoarsely. “God, can I--can I go down on you?”

And there it is, that smile he loves, and Melissa says, “Absolutely.”

That’s how Mark ends up on the floor, Melissa’s thighs straddling his face, trembling slightly against Mark’s hands as Mark licks into her. She’s already wet, and Mark groans at the taste, dizzy from arousal. 

Melissa isn’t loud, as it turns out, but Mark drinks up the sounds she does make, her harsh breathing, the quiet noises she makes when Mark sucks at her clit, when he slides two fingers into her--

His cock is aching, leaking in his boxers and Mark couldn’t care, all he wants is to keep riding this high, all he needs is to give Melissa what she wants, to give himself up until she’s satisfied--

“Oh God,” Melissa says, her voice cutting through the buzzing in Mark’s ears. “Jesus… _Mark_ \--”

And that’s when Mark wakes up with a start, staring blindly at the ceiling of his quarters on the _Hermes_ , his cock hard in his pants and Melissa, Melissa right there next to him, sleeping soundly. 

Jesus Christ. Mark is frozen, there on the bed, the remembered taste of Melissa still in his mouth--how can he still remember that? It wasn’t real, it was just a dream, just a dream that he’d touched her like that, that she’d _wanted_ him to--

Because that wasn’t real, but this is, Melissa sleeping next to him now, serene and trusting, her breathing slow and even as she sleeps on, a warm weight against Mark’s side while he lies here, hard as a goddamn rock, every inch of his skin electrified, his mind spinning because he can’t _do_ this, he can’t--

But he is. He already has.

Hardly daring to breathe, Mark tries to slide out from under the covers, moving slowly so as not to disturb her--and then he freezes right in his tracks as Melissa makes a low noise of discontent, throwing an arm around his chest to keep him there, keep him in that bed next to her. 

Mark’s heart is pounding in his ears, but he somehow, somehow waits to be sure she’s really asleep before he slowly slides himself away, inching out of the warm bed until his feet are on the cool floor, until he’s on his feet, staring down at Melissa, her hair loose on the pillow, her arm occupying the space where he used to be. 

He’s still hard. 

Slowly, slowly, Mark walks away from the warm bed, slips out through the door--and after a second of hesitation, heads towards the bathroom. 

A short time later, he’s in the bathroom, hand wrapped around his cock, thumb moving over the slick head, trying his best not to think but all he can do is think, think of her, her long hair and warm skin, the way she sounded in his dream, how much he’d wanted to give her what she wanted. Anything she had wanted. 

He comes too soon, on a rush of endorphins and arousal and guilt, closing his eyes as he comes over his hand, mouth open on a silent gasp. 

When Mark comes back to bed, his hands have been scrubbed clean and there’s a guilty knot resting low in his stomach, a knot that only gets worse as he slips in under the warm sheets, Melissa sleeping still, thank God. 

Once he’s back in bed, Mark holds himself as stiffly as a plank, hands at his side, and he stares up at the ceiling and waits for either sleep to return or the alarm to go off, whichever comes first. 

*

It’s not the alarm that wakes Mark up the next morning, but rather Melissa’s hand on his shoulder shaking him awake, her low voice calling out, “Mark? Mark, wake up.”

“Whassit,” Mark mumbles, blearily turning onto his back and blinking up at Melissa, who’s sitting up and peering down at him, looking only somewhat more awake than he feels. Mark looks up at her, at her tangled hair and the little furrow between her eyebrows, enjoying a moment of peace before the memory of his dream last night comes crashing down on him.

Mark’s entire body freezes as he stares up at Melissa, and her eyebrows rise in response. “Mark, are you all right?”

“Fine,” Mark says, through lips that have gone numb. “I’m fine.”

He can’t stop staring at her. Melissa’s hair is a tangled cloud around her shoulders, there are creases on her face from it’s been resting against the pillow, and her cheeks are still flushed from sleep. She looks nothing like the woman in his dream last night, she’s rumpled and real and _here_ with him and in this exact moment, Mark wants her so badly that he can’t breathe for the force of it. 

“Mark,” Melissa presses, and Mark drags air into his lungs and somehow, somehow smiles at her. It’s a weak smile, but it’s something. “Sorry,” he says. “Just, uh. I had some strange dreams last night.”

The furrow between Melissa’s eyebrow eases a little, and she smiles down at him, seemingly reassured that his weirdness has an explanation she can grasp. “Yeah, plenty of those going around,” she murmurs, and before Mark can blink, she’s touching his shoulder, her thumb idly rubbing a circle through the thin fabric of his shirt. “You okay?”

Mark nods, viscerally aware of the warm bed, every place where their bodies are touching, needs a moment before he can manage to string together a fumbled, “Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine.”

Melissa’s looking at him like she doesn’t quite believe it--and why should she, given how he’s acting--but does him the courtesy of not saying anything other than, “Okay. Breakfast’ll be starting soon, we should get going.”

“Yeah,” Mark says, half to himself, watching dazedly as Melissa clambers out of bed. “Yeah, just--give me a minute.”

He turns his head as Melissa starts to undress, the faint rustle of moving fabric too loud in their small bunk, and tries to keep his breathing even and steady as he gets himself under some semblance of control. 

It’s fine. He’s fine. One dream--one stupid, ridiculous dream doesn’t change anything. Random synapses firing in the brain, a natural physical reaction to, to--he doesn’t have to let it change a damn thing, not when it wasn’t real. Not when it doesn’t compare, can’t compare, to Melissa’s friendship and trust and bone-deep faith in him, a faith that was created on a red planet that gets farther away with every second.

It’s all going to be fine, because it has to be. So Mark pushes it aside, buries it down deep, and gets out of the bed he shares with her, and he starts getting ready for the day ahead, getting dressed on automatic, rubbing his hand over the stubble he still needs to shave, making sure not to turn his head to where Melissa is, in case he accidentally sees a flash of pale skin, a glimpse of her still too-thin limbs. 

He loves Melissa. They’re alive and they’re safe and he loves her. Mark knows this like he knows the back of his hand, the color of his eyes, the exact specifications of the HAB that was once their home for over a year. 

They’re alive. They’re safe. They’re going home. And he loves Melissa, with everything that he has, he loves her. Anything beyond that will just have to wait.

Melissa turns to look at him as she’s heading out the door. “Mark, you coming?”

“Yeah,” Mark says, and his answering smile fits easily on his face. “Yeah, I’m with you."

**Author's Note:**

> I'm themardia on tumblr, if you want to drop by and say hello. :)


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